


Bone Deep

by StarkMad



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battlefield, F/M, Pining? but not really?, Warging, hinted Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkMad/pseuds/StarkMad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wishes that someday...it'll be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bone Deep

Gendry couldn’t feel anything.

That wasn’t right.

He _can_ feel, only, the pain’s more likely numbed him to feel anything else.

Or was it the cold doing that? He wasn’t too sure. He couldn’t think straight.

He knew, though. He knew he had to reach her. Another came at him but he could see that he wouldn’t be able to block it, arms too heavy, feeling sluggish as he turned to face his attacker.

He should move.  _Now. Move, you stupid Bull! Gendry!_

But everything was slowing down, too slow, too slow. Stop. And then he was moving, but--not really? His arms were moving, certainly, wrist and torso twisting in a motion that was unfamiliar, foreign, and then the other was dead, a clean stab through his gut.

His knees buckle almost as soon as his arms jerk back to life as _his_ , his mind screaming that something has happened, something _wrong_.

He chokes, bile rising up his throat, belatedly noticing that he’s on his hands and knees, ragged gloved hands spread before him, half buried in churned up muck and snow.

The battle is still raging on and he is ignored for a moment, the dead and wounded around him, left to be picked clean later. Gasping at the cold air, his heart beats painfully in his chest. He thinks it might burst.

He stares at his fists, blade forgotten, wondering if he’ll be able to find her again amidst all this. Amidst all the blood and guts and—he stiffens, stops breathing, feeling a hand press against the exposed skin below his helmet, slowly spreading to grip his nape firmly. And then there is warmth against his side as the figure (small, his mind supplies, small, easy to shove away) crouches close.

“Gendry?”

He does not turn his head to face her, unable to. Her hand maybe small but it was steady and he wants to pull away, thinking of the grime and blood and sweat covering his skin, dirtying her perfect, so perfect white slender fingers. He chokes out a laugh, hysterical almost at the thought of dirtying her. Knows perfectly well her hands (bare, always bare, despite the cold) are bloodier than most, bloodier than his. His fucking helmet is in the way, eyes straining to the side.

Thankfully, as if sensing his thoughts, she bends closer and his world narrows, everything a muted blur, except for her.

Grey, grey eyes as sharp as ever.

He knows he is smiling, like a fool, knocked too hard on the head, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t know why (or maybe he does) but she hadn’t changed her face today, not today, not for this battle.

She could have but she hadn’t.

It makes his insides feel all strange inside, definitely not helping as he struggles back to stand, unsteadily leaning on her. He notices there are more bodies around them now. Had she killed them all while he was distracted? Surely he hadn’t been that out of it for more than a moment.

The battle was over, it seemed as he surveyed their surroundings. Only a few clustered groups fighting. Enemy soldiers who hadn’t fled yet.

He tilts his head back, thinking how he should really take off his helmet now, feeling her hands slip down to the side of his neck, thumb pressing up against his throat. He inhales, welcoming icy air while leaning in to her touch.

“Arya.”

He manages to choke out her name, brow scrunching in confusion, voice not his own. A handful of snow would be welcome at the moment but he thinks it would be unwise to risk the patches of snow in the open field around them.

His face is to the sky, seeing nothing but never changing muted grey and so he closes his eyes.

He misses the sun. The warmth of it on his face.

He wasn’t made for the cold. He wasn’t made for winter. He wasn’t made for _any of this_. But he wants to be. He has to be or he won’t ever be able to—he shuts down that thought quickly.

She shifts beside him and so he turns but she is already pulling away.

Her dark hair is a tight braid against her exposed neck, a few strands untucked by the beating winds.

He feels like he is about ready to drop to the ground and lay there for a bit. Too exhausted for words. But his eyes remain fixed on Arya, taking in whatever detail his mind could manage, willing himself to brand it into his memory, the sharp outline of her, from her brow to her mesmerizing eyes, to her nose, to her prim mouth, lips drawn tight, to her sharp chin, to everything—everything.

He knows the moment she calls for her wolf, eyes closed, sharp figure softening (he can’t help but notice her lashes, dark as ever sweeping low against her cheeks). Unconsciously, he moves to steady her, even for a moment, then she’s back, only, staring at the tree line to the far end of the field.

And he knows in that instant that she’d saved him _again._ Something inside his chest feels like it’s being crushed. She’d taken over to save his stupid head and he wanted to just grab her, pull her into the confines of his arms, or just shake her for risking even a split of a second because-- _gods!_ She could have  _died!--_ he wasn’t fucking worth it! He’s fisting her hood before he realizes it and steps back quickly. She doesn't even turn around.

He wants to tell her he’s sorry. He should have—he was still too weak and she’d managed to slip away from his sight during the battle, even when he’d sworn to himself that he would watch her back, that she would be able to trust _him_ to watch her back. He wants to tell her everything, spill out his guts until his heart didn’t ache anymore, making him feel sick and keeping him up at night. He has a feeling that she knows anyway.

He says nothing.

She says nothing back, only looks at him with those eyes, unreadable.

It still takes his breath away, thinking of how much he loves her, fucking  _loves her_ , how frightening it is to love her, how he can’t ever say anything even though they both know who’s on his mind every day, all day.

But he knows, bone deep, that she’ll come to him tonight, as always, for nothing more than to make sure he’s well and alive still and, _gods_ , he wishes that someday he’ll make himself believe that it is enough. What they have now is enough.

He walks a step behind her all the way back to wherever the wolves say is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, I miss writing but life has just been too hectic and *sobs* The Winds of Winter isn't out yet and GoT 4 will take another year.


End file.
